Way back when, when my brother was in high school (or perhaps when he should have been in high school but was elsewhere), he and his friend Kaj were strolling through the Springfield Mall, when they came across three skinheads who had surrounded and were bullying an 11 year old black girl. Kaj, being of rather large scandinavian stock, walked up to the largest of the skinheads, picked him up and dangled him over the railing, and held him there until all three of the skinheads apologized to the girl.
Also around the same time period (this is gonna turn into three stories), my brother had a party - house full of punks of various stripes and persuasions, and me, a long-haired hippie type - and a whole crew of skinheads showed up unexpectedly. Late in the night, they're all drunk, and there had been fungi, of which I'd sampled, and the TV is on, and the skinheads see a black actress on the TV and start ranting about "nigger cunts" and what they wanted to do. And I said something to the effect of, "You don't talk like that." And they puffed up and stomped their shiny boots and said, "Oh yeah? What are you gonna do about it?" Me: "Probably get the shit beat out of me, but I still won't let you talk like that in my house." Them: long rant about the Constitution and "their rights" and freedom of speech. Me: "That's right, you have freedom of speech. But I have private property. You want to talk like that, get the fuck out of my house. Or shut the fuck up."
And they shut the fuck up.
So, there was this guy what went to graduate school with me, in the Philosophy Dept at Temple. I forget his name. He was from "da bronx," but was living in NJ while in school. So one day, he's driving down the highway and a car crosses the median strip from the other side, clips his fender and then goes off the road. His car starts spinning, and it, too, crosses the median strip, and then his travelling down the highway, spinning, toward oncoming traffic.
"I saw trees, and then cars moving away from me, and then trees, and then cars coming toward me, and I knew I was gonna die. And the first car in line was a Saab, and the guy managed to stop inches away from my bumper. And we just looked at each other, and then he picked up a phone [this is 1990, when cellular phones were very expensive and came with briefcases for the battery pack] and called the police."
So the police show up, take everyone's statements and information, and the cop comes up to our Intrepid Philosopher and says, "When did you move to New Jersey?"
"Uh, about 3 months ago."
"You got a New York license. I think you only have 60 days to change your address."
The cop goes away to write stuff up. He comes back to our Intrepid Philosopher and says, "I was wrong, you only got 30 days to change your address."
Well, 60 days or 30 days, what's the difference, right? 90 is greater than either. "Oh well," he sez. "The point's moot."
Cop: "What did you call me?"
IP: "Huh? I didn't call you nuthin'. I said 'The point's moot.'"
Cop: "WHAT did you call me?"
IP: "I didn't call you anything. Whether it's 60 days or 30 days, it doesn't matter. I'm gettin' a ticket anyway."
Cop: "That's right, motherfucker. You're getting a ticket. WHAT did you call me?"